If "if" was a fifth, we'd all be drunk as fuck

Didn't mail the pages. Too lazy to care. Why spend the money when the shit's gonna be rejected anyway? I could use that dollar to buy a Kit-Kat.

As the title suggests, I've been bitten by the "if" bug. What if I don't make it as a writer? If I do make it, what will I have to sacrifice? If I do have a movie made, then what? What if I run out of stories to tell?

Tomorrow is my work Christmas party and I'm not wanting to go. There is a large contingent of people at this job that, had I a dick, I would tell them to suck it. But since I don't have a dick and I've already RSVP'd, I'm gonna go ahead and show my face. I think I've gained weight, though. Luckily, I won't be the fattest person in the room.

Today was a strange day indeed. At work, I didn't feel like doing anything. At home, I felt like doing even less. I did write today, though. Began outlining a story I inspired by toast crumbs in the butter, if you can believe that. I don't know how commercial it is. Don't even know if there's a real story in there. Unlike the toast crumbs. Those were real as hell.

On another note, it looks like I'm going to Ski Week in January with my husband and in-laws. Can't say I'm looking forward to it. My mother-in-law is an interesting study, but a whole week might drive me to drink (absinthe). Look, I don't want to have to explain why I think her daughter is a putz or why I don't practice random acts of procreation. But my husband has this need to see his family. I'll go to keep her from pouncing all over my son- asking him why he's not like her sons. That's is, practically perfect in every way, of course. Yeah, so my son loves his video games and can be a lazy butt munch. But he's my lazy butt munch. And if the MIL thinks that she's got a captive audience to regale us with tales of what God's gifts to the textbook industry her children (and my sister-in-law's children) are, I'm ghost. Packing my shit and WALKING to the nearest airport.

That was extremely tangential and i've since forgotten what the original thought was. I'm tired now.

career options

Ya'll, I'm not even going to front. I spent the better part of today feeling sorry for myself and bemoaning my sub-plankton station in the writing food chain. Why do I continue to put myself through this? Just as I was about to explore career options in underwater welding, God came through once again. It seems my Lucas Donovan query letter has piqued the interest of a second agent who would like to see the first 10-12 pages. Although I'm still licking my Cave-wounds, I'll go ahead and send it tomorrow anyway.

what did you expect?

Project: Cavemen. Status: Rejected.

gallileo! gallileo!

These past few days have been relaxing. No, I haven't heard anything from the agents reading my work, but I've spent quite a bit of time on my latest work. I'm on page 60 right now (presently taking a break to blog it out) and will probably get up to 70 quality pages by day's end. Last night and this morning, I revisited the outline and figured out what I was missing. As a writer, it's a tricky thing to translate the entire story in your head onto the page.

My confidence in my Cavemen script is waning. My sister read it for me (after it had been submitted) and pointed out a glaring defect that no-one else found. Well, shit. Not much I can do about it now; it's already been mailed. I also haven't heard anything from any of the playhouses I've submitted work to. It's the holiday season, though. So, I expect everyone is moving at the speed of yuletide these days.

I've taken my husband's advice and thrown myself into other activities so I'm not sitting around waiting for the rejection/contracts in the mail. Our neighborhood Christmas party is in two weeks and I've appointed myself chairperson for the festivities. I've rediscovered my love for online shopping and Freddy Mercury. Alas, it hasn't been all Laredoute.com and Bohemian Rhapsody. I also learned that my son is the most conniving person on the planet and I can't trust him. Point blank. He's a liar. How does one raise a liar? And more importantly, how does one un-raise a liar? He is also a showboating know-it-all. I'm truly at a loss as to what to do with him. I do know that the festival of indulgence that has been his life so far has come to an end. It's time for him to grow up.

Me, my baby and flat iron

First of all, let me say that I am deeply sorry that you had to read about my adventures in B.M. land. But I'm a human being. Does not a human feel? Does not a human poo?

So this morning I went to WalMart for some Frizz-Ease and a flat iron for my 'do. Well, I'd forgotten that it was Black Friday (mostly because every Friday is "black Friday" for me. Or is it Negro Friday? I dunno). Anyway, I was in the hair serum aisle when I saw a woman with a cart loaded down with overpriced plastic madness. She was a complete stranger, but your favorite social cripple had to ask the pointed question: "I hope there's something for you in there". She told me that there was, in fact, nothing in the cart for her and that she was halfway down her daughter's list (which included Hannah Montana tickets and a hamster). We engaged in a lovely convo about how the going price for H.M. concert tickets is nearing the realm of one vital organ per ticket and the long lines before parting ways. The woman was a saint.

People watching on Black Friday is wonderful. I'm going back out next year, too. I love the hustle, the bustle, the desperation on faces, the ridiculous lines, the calculated product shortages, the sheer lunacy of it all. As an amazingly anticlimactic postscript, I did eventually get my flat iron and Friz-Ease and now my hair is mad shiny. Ka-chow!

post script

I'm taking a shit and my son is playing Operation on the floor in the bathroom. Yes, the same bathroom I'm trying to shit in. How am I supposed to grunt/moan/remove my bra/ curse the heavens with him here? Oh, the joys of motherhood!

pep talk

I'm so tired right now that I can barely hold my big head up. All this waiting for agent's replies is taking a toll on my psyche, which in turn, is taking a toll on my body. As it write this, my son keeps nagging me to do something with him, but I'm giving him the old stiff arm. Ya'll, he likes to watch the same shit every day and I'm just not feeling it tonight. And I sure as hell don't want to play "Guess Who" or "Scrabble" with his cheating ass. So, I'm gonna log in my thoughts, then hit the sack.

On another note: am I missing the point of Christmas? I only have five gifts picked out for my husband and I'm stressing. Resolved: I'll buy the five things I have picked out and then other things as they come up. My Lord, it's actually become a competition. I can't let him out-give me!

Can I just say how much I love talking to my writer buddies? One of them read my Cavemen spec today and actually laughed out loud! She gives feedback like a champ and I respect her for that. Whenever I feel like I'm spinning my wheels in the mud of the undiscovered, she reminds me of the thing that all artists need to hear every once in a while: that we do what we do because we can and we must. That doesn't mean that artists don't require practice, but I believe that if we weren't called in some way to create, then we wouldn't. Not everybody will appreciate your art, but that's okay. She's having a bit of a time with editors who are looking for so-called "everything", but aren't feeling her work. It will come for her, I know. Her storytelling and character building is far superior to mine. Publishing houses are definitely sleeping on her.

If you aim for the moon, you will get there (or at least a brilliant star). But no matter where you aim, as long as you land farther than you are, you're a success.

Goody Fantastika

I'm quitting teaching Sunday School, starting last Sunday. I've been denying it, but whenever I drive up to the church, my stomach churns. It's beyond icky when the door guards give you that pitiable smile that says "You'll never be as holy as me, but thanks for coming. Enjoy the complimentary donuts". I'm weary. Still, there's nothing better than spending time with a bunch of five year olds who know God better than 90% of the adults I know. Unfortunately, that's where my joy ends.

Remember the Salem Witch Trials where the young women (Goody Sarah, Goody Margaret, Goody Good Pecker- okay, not the last one) were placed on trial as a result of that "you're either with us or against us" mentality? Look, just because I don't enjoy church doesn't mean I'm a heathen or that I'm even backsliding. I wonder if I can get that on a tee shirt?

the waiting game

Three weeks, two agents, one shot. That's what my writing life has boiled down to. But it's all good. I've got several irons in several fires, so in the event that one spike turns out dull, I'll use my remaining energies to stoke the other flames. And, yes, that concludes that chain of excruciating blacksmith metaphors. Last night I tried to work on another screenplay of mine, but I fell asleep at the keyboard again. Productive, indeed... I also received my 9th place certificate in the mail today. In fact, I'm using it as a coaster for my teacup right now. Yeah, it's 9th place, but it's the highest I've gotten so far. Simply looking at it validates the struggle.

My sister sent me a fly-ass tote bag yesterday. How can a tote bag be fly, you ask? Easy- when it's Beatle related. Can't wait to rock it this weekend. Of course, that means I have to find a place to go. How about Starbucks? If the Starbucks crowd can't appreciate the vintage tote, nobody can. So that's where I sit now: bumping Dr. Dre ("ain't nuthin but a G thang baaaaybay/two loc'd out G's going craaaaayzay"), avoiding writing and planning to sport my fly Beatles tote.

It's like this and like that and this and uh...

into the wild, blue yonder

Can you hear that? It's me humming the old Air Force jingle: "Off we go! Into the wild blue yonder!" This fateful morning, I'm sending off my Cavemen spec into the wide world. I'm fairly confident, though. The better part of the weekend was spent writing, rewriting, tweaking (and drinking martinis, but that doesn't have anything to do with the script) and now I can say that it is as finished and as funny as it is going to get.

I still haven't heard anything back from that LA agency about Lucas Donovan. No news is good news, or so the saying goes. I sent it out on 11/7 and it's been almost two weeks. It's a short script (about 90 pages) and everyone that's read it says it's a quick read. Maybe she's already passed on it and my rejection is enroute? Or maybe she was blindsided by my genius and is drawing up a contract? Wouldn't that just beat the band? I'm choosing to think positive.

Negotiations between WGA and producers are set for 11/26. I'm rooting for them, but not too much. After all, I need time to secure representation before people go back to work. After the strike, I'm not going to have their attention like I do now. But if the writers emerge victorious with more money from online streaming and iTunes downloads, then it could only benefit me in the long run.

Remember that song "If I Had" on Eminem's first CD? Recommend revisiting it. For all of us would-be screenwriters, novelists, fashion designers, rock stars, astronauts... the desperation in his voice is oh-so-familiar.

free fallin'

I don't know if it's because of the song itself or just the video, but the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers ditty "Free Fallin" always gives me a feeling of buoyancy. Hence, the entry title. I received two happy emails today. One from an agent that represents T.V. writers. As it turns out, she is more than happy to read my "Cavemen" spec script "with a two week exclusivity toward representing you". Woo-hoo! I'm giving the script a once over again to make sure it has the right mixture of funny and self-referential. I plan to send my baby out into the wind on Monday. Wish me luck.

The second happy email was from a theatre company in Denver. The owner/director lady said she liked that I had dangerous plays and was looking forward to reading them. Over the moon was not the word to describe how I felt! It's November 2007 and I may- just may -end up with representation or at least a venue for a world premiere of my play. A couple of months ago, I sat here lamenting the fact that my writing career had stalled. Crazy how things work out.

I've gotta go and free fall into my script now. Gotta find the funny. Gotta succeed.

merry Christmas from me to flu

I have the flu, so I'm home from work. At first, I wondered if it was the actual flu or just depression in flu's clothing, so I just took the day as a precaution. As it turns out, I'm actually physically ill this time. Who knew?

Alas, if there's one thing that makes me feel better, it's Christmas. I love Christmas as much as I love toast. In an effort to cheer up my immune system, I'm listening to Harry Connick, Jr's Christmas CD and watching the DVD. Nothing says yuletide like a big band and a square jawed crooner. If I hadn't left Barry Manilow's Christmas CD in my desk drawer, I'd be rocking that one, too. Well, as much as one can rock Manilow.

On the writing front- I haven't heard anything back from the agency that requested my entire script. I'm optimistic, though. I'm talented, right? My movies are at least as good as the stuff out now, right? I have confidence that, as soon as someone actually reads my work, they'll take me on. My stories are compelling, damn it! On another note, I've been getting my rejections back a lot quicker. My hunch is, because of the writer's strike, many agents are sitting on their thumbs. Why not use those under-employed digits to rip open my queries? I'm using today's down time to fire off more queries. That's a lie. I used a good deal of the morning on housework like laundry and cleaning dried boogers off my son's wall. I should save them and put them in his stocking, nasty fahker.

morning symbolism

This morning on my 6am walk, I had a strange encounter. I saw what I thought was a rabbit in someone's yard. Nothing too odd about that; rabbits are pretty plentiful around here (I guess there's some truth to that whole adage- they multiply like you-know-whats), so I wasn't all that shocked. I reminded myself to keep a safe distance in case he was a rabid bastard and keep on truckin. I watched it as it watched me and then took off across the grass. Then, the strangest thing happened. It took flight. It bounded one, two times and then was airborne. That's when I realized that it wasn't a rabbit at all, but a bird (I also realized that I need to start wearing my glasses more often). Okay, so it wasn't exactly a "road to Damascus" moment, but being on that eternal quest for meaning, I didn't have to look far for the literary symbolism. Maybe the pieces I relegate in the limbo file should be given their day. Just because I see them as dime-a-dozen, rabid bastards doesn't mean I should not give them their chance to fly, right?

Gas

Gas is now $2.91 a gallon where I live. I must say that, although I think it's a crock of warm shit, I'm thankful the cost doesn't hit me in the pocketbook like many others.

I still love Dog the Bounty Hunter. A lot more people than you'd imagine think and say a lot worse. I know I've thought and said a lot worse about my own people. Like Chris Rock said, "There are black people and there are N*ggers". I love black people. I can't stand n*ggers. And for the record, n*ggers come in 37 flavors and then some.

Well, I've gotta get my black ass out of bed and make it through the day. Scratch that. I'm going to make a difference to someone today. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Montana, Never

I forgot to tell you: I didn't make it to the one-act festival in Montana. Side note- I should stop saying "I was rejected or I didn't make it", because it was ME who was rejected. For one reason or another, it was my play. If I change the way I talk, can I change the way it stings? I can call a needle a whiffle ball bat, but when it pierces the skin, it still hurts like a summamabitch.

Good fortunes

I'm having the most freakingist awesomist day a human being could have (so awesome it defies proper conjugation, damn it)! This morning, I received a note from a Hollywood agency saying they'd gotten my query letter and were interested in reading the screenplay. I filled out the release and sent it off this morning. This is another milestone for me- only the second time this has happened! The first was a small Georgia production company that look so long to review the piece (almost a year) that I actually wrote to them and requested that they withdraw my script from consideration. Alas, it's a new day and a new script (that last one involved a drag queen and a one-legged reporter, so in retrospect it was probably for the best that my name wasn't associated with that trash in public).

Needless to say, I am over the moon with this news! Could this be the break I've been waiting for?

I've finished the outline for my Cavemen script. Am I going to wait until the strike is over to run out and find a home for it? Let the church say "Hell, no, bitches!" It's like this, potnah: remember that episode of Alice where Mel and the girls were locked in the stockroom? They were in there for hours, a captive audience to Vera's particular brand of homespun foolishness. Well, the WGA strike is the locked storeroom and it's me and the agents, baby. A captive audience. Want something to read? You don't have working clients or new projects. In fact, by my reckoning, you ain't got nothin' but time...

Life is too good today.

The Passion of the Claus

Today was damned productive. I woke up resolving to have a great day and I almost succeeded. The people at work were buttheads, but what are you gonna do, eh? I suppose that's why it's called work and not play. At any rate, I ordered a crap load of Christmas presents for my son today. So much so that my husband has told me that I cannot buy any more for a while. Whatever. He's not the boss of me. Boy, I love Christmas! The sights, the sounds, the smells, the ripping open of wrapping paper and the subsequent lazing about among presents. Christmas' when I was younger were the bomb. They were the only times when I was truly happy to be alive. Yes, I was a depressing soul, even as a youngin.

Listening to Serena Ryder (iTunes her because she rocks) makes me want to try to tackle my guitar again. I got pretty far a couple of weeks ago. I learned an open G and F. I kept trying to convince myself that the reason I haven't been playing is because my fingers are too short. That's right. I'm not a lazy fooker, but a lazy fooker with stubby fingers. Maybe I'll buy myself a mandolin. Then, I can learn to play the intro to "Losing my Religion" and call it a day.

Guess what? I've found a place to send my bastard Christmas play "The Passion of the Claus". It's a gut-wrenching slice-of-life that chronicles the debilitating self-doubt and niggling insecurities an aging Santa must battle the other 364 days of the year. Did I mention it's written for Kindergartners? I'll let you know how this all turns out...

One last thought- I cannot listen to the Spencer Davis Group without thinking about all those STOOPID financial planning commercials! Look, words cannot express how much I freaking love the Spencer Davis Group. I even believe that Steve Winwood- with the help of corrective dentistry- could be a major hottie (don't knock it. Dentistry turned David Bowie from a space freak to a space freak with perfectly capped incisors). "Gimme Some Lovin" shouldn't remind me of ex-hippies who, instead of spending the last forty-odd learning bulls and bears, sunk every peso they had into ill-fated hemp futures.

Last thought- Did you know that John Phillips (Mamas and Papas) taught his daughter to shoot heroin at 12 years old? He died last year and is now burning in hell.

critique

I received a critique today. It stated my piece sounded as if it was written by someone on drugs who just sat down at a computer and started typing. They didn't like my descriptions (a bedroom on fire and gangrene of the lips, for example); thought they were too weird. Although they found the piece very entertaining, it was a little too weird for them.

This is a great time for a word on my influences. I grew up listening to (and I suppose internalizing) psychedelic, mind-bending lyrics by Led Zepplin, the Strawberry Alarm Clock, and the Doors. My favorite movies are the ones that make me think so hard that I can only watch them once (Velvet Goldmine, Boogie Nights, Blair Witch Project). My sense of humor tends toward the irreverent and the inappropriate. I often throw words together to see if they stick and I'm obsessed with the way a sentence sounds when it's said out loud. Too many "s" sounds in that last one, by the way.

Now I must feed my family, edit a coupla ten minute jobbies and get back to challenging the world, one alliterated sentence at a time.

need a minute?

I'm thinking about taking a leave of absence from work. It's no longer fun and I need an Atlanta minute to get my thoughts together.

things we said today

One of my favorite Beatles songs is "The things we said today". As I sat at my desk, I got to thinking about the things I tend to say, even if they are only in my head. You know, uplifting little things when I'm in the car like "Could you waddle across the street any slower, you fat fuck and a half?!" or standing behind the pokey poke in the sandwich line: "What comes on the rueben? Gee, my crystal ball is broken, but lucky for us there's a TWENTY FOOT CHALKBOARD right in front of your stupid, non-observant, pug-like face with all the listed ingredients. Oh, sure. I'll take a moment to give you time to order and feel like the asshole you are".

Just checked the Massachusettes festival website. There are no results posted clearly marked 2007 winners, but there are some "congratulations playwrights" posted. Don't know if it's for this year, but I do know my name wasn't included.

That gaping black hole of depression is pulling me into it's orbit (this is the part where my junior astronaut cadet of a husband says that black holes don't have orbits. We get it. You're a genius. Moving on). So depressed I'm almost catatonic...I'm very unhappy because my writing career-such as it is-sucks, I'm bored of real estate and the world would be better off without me. Ya'll, there's an impending writer's strike in Hollywood. Can you say "Kay the Scab"? I wish somebody would ask me to fill in. I would cross those lines faster than a crack head on fire.

My son told me that he wouldn't mind if I moved out if it meant that he could have a pet snake. Last night, he went trick or treating with his dad, Mr. Perfect. The only time my son and I spend fun time together is watching "Martin". It's so broad and silly, we can both enjoy it. Maybe I should write Martin Lawrence a thank you note.